


Novel Sensation

by squidmemesinc



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Fluff, Hands, Other, Tactile Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 04:51:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11051700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidmemesinc/pseuds/squidmemesinc
Summary: Drift finds himself fascinated by Ratchet's hands. Ratchet finds himself fascinated by Drift.





	Novel Sensation

**Author's Note:**

> Would you believe I forgot tactile smut was a thing for a minute. Here I am like two days after remembering with my intense hand obsession. 
> 
> (I meant Dratchet to be the FIRST tf fic I posted btw. Idk why it took this long.)

“I still can’t believe you punched him.”

Drift is hovering over Ratchet’s shoulder as he attempts to repair his own hand with a _very hot_ laser scalpel, and were Ratchet not in need of both his hands at the moment, he might have swatted the younger mech away.

“You cut my gun in half,” Ratchet grunts without looking up, trying to ignore the imposing presence of Drift at his back for more reasons than just a medical misstep.

“Accidentally. And I said I was sorry, and also that I could handle him. You didn’t have to get all that stuff—what did you call it?—stuck in your hand. When his head exploded. Because you punched him.”

“ _Bones_ ,” the doctor replies tiredly, putting down the scalpel and flexing his stiff fingers. It’s a little achy, but not unnaturally so for this fresh a repair. “They’re not as strong as metal, but that just means they shatter easier. It can end up like splinters if you’re not careful and you hit it wrong.”

Drift circles around to the other side of the table and pulls up a chair, looking a little bit too pleased considering his first and only companion for the last good number of solar cycles could have been seriously injured. Well, by his own standards it would have been serious. Maybe. “Are you admitting to not being careful?” Drift wonders smugly. “Huh.”

Ratchet folds his hand into an accusatory pointing finger and shakes it at the other, largely motivated by a desire to see if he can. “I’m admitting to _improvising_ because some _hyperactive ninja wannabe_ sacrificed substance for—”

“Style?” Drift suggests.

“— _ostentation,_ ” Ratchet finishes.

Drift has his elbows on the table with his face framed in his hands, wearing a lazy smile despite Ratchet’s griping. The unusual reaction to their standard verbal sparring match is throwing him off until Drift says, quite sincerely, “I missed this,” and Ratchet allows his face to soften a bit and his hand to drop to the table. It couldn’t have been easy, he reminds himself. That’s why he came. Amongst other reasons.

He lets himself look at Drift. Really look at him. The other bot looks genuinely happy, which is a very big change from when Ratchet first met up with him. He’s stopped being so grouchy and bitter, choosing instead to hand those labels back over to their rightful owner. He’s wondered if that has more to do with the prospect of going back to everyone else or just the relatively novel sensation of not being alone anymore. They haven’t talked much about the _Lost Light_. He’s agreed to come out of this ridiculous self-imposed exile, of course, but they’ve been taking their time on the return. Dawdling, Ratchet might say, though not to Drift. Picking up a bit of good karma for themselves in the meantime. At least when the organics they’re trying to help aren’t so hostile as to merit punching. Or…head-exploding.

Drift’s face has fallen a little since Ratchet’s train of thought got derailed. He’s shifted out of his previous pose and has his hands flat on the table now, with one rather close to Ratchet’s own. “I _am_ sorry. I’m glad you were able to fix it. I don’t know if I’d have been able to.” Ratchet senses a small apology in his words for the extensive repairs he’d had to do for him after the cycles and cycles of inexperienced quick-fixes and medical shortcuts Drift had taken to keep himself online. His fingers dare to reach out and touch the back of Ratchet’s hand, testing, trying to find evidence of where the punctures in the plates were that have been mended.

Ratchet gives a standoffish huff, but his eyes are fixed on Drift’s wandering digits. “Hmph. Like I’d trust you with my hands.”

Drift grins again without looking at him. “Pharma’s hands, technically.” Which he likely brings up because he wants the credit for cutting them off.

Ratchet won’t give it to him. “You wanna bet?” he snorts. “He’s not coming back for them. I wrote my serial number on them just to make sure.”

Drift frowns, disbelieving. “No you didn’t.”

The doctor angles the back of his hand to Drift’s optics and points near to the seam of his wrist where he’s printed some very, very tiny numbers. He honestly hadn’t had much of a reason to do so other than mere vandalism. It wouldn’t have deterred Pharma from taking his hands back if he’d wanted to or had the means (although Ratchet would have liked to see him try). But his spark flutters a little when Drift takes hold of his forearm and leans in to peer at the writing. His fingers against Ratchet’s frame have that same inappropriately thrilling effect on him as the chaste little brush from before. Ratchet is quietly berating himself for wanting this second touch, this chance to watch Drift’s face as his optics focus on the tiny characters as his fingers burn against his hot metal.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Drift says quietly. Ratchet doesn’t catch the inflection in his tone to mean the skill or the pettiness. Drift doesn’t let go, but his optics wander back to the same spot as before. Ratchet watches as he gently turns his hand over on the table, one set of long, thin fingers curled bracingly around his forearm as the others trace across the relatively delicate seam in the middle of his palm through which the shards of organic matter had pierced. The pressure is so light and tender it might not even be there if Ratchet weren't seeing it happen with his own optics, allowing his sensors to make the connection. But somehow that in itself seems to be magnifying the sensation a hundredfold, just because it’s Drift doing the touching.

Waves of pleasure shoot up his arm unbidden, dispersing through his whole body like fireworks. He realizes he’s been clamping his denta together hard enough to make them hurt and forces himself to stop, sparing a moment to look up at Drift, wondering if he knows what this is doing to Ratchet’s overly-sensitive medic hands. Surely he’s not _trying_ to make a move on him? But also he feels a little trapped, not wanting to have to be the one to point out to Drift how good this feels to him. The other mech is still wearing a distant expression of soft wonderment at the skill of the repairs, and indeed does not seem to notice his actions. His gaze clearly isn’t registering the movement of his own fingers, but he looks up, sensing Ratchet’s eyes on him, and blinks out of his haze, and _then_ realization hits him. Slag.

Drift starts to pull back, only just now registering the intimacy of his actions. “Sorry, I—”

“You—” Ratchet croaks, wincing at the way his vocalizer catches on static. He kicks it into a fast, sloppy reboot before Drift can pull away completely, privately wondering what in the Pit he’s doing. “You don't have to stop,” he finishes. “Please,” he adds very softly, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable, but wanting this more than anything he can remember. He’s been putting it off for ages, constantly claiming that it’s not the right time, but he might not get another chance after this to be alone with Drift. He just hopes they can sort it out if he is mistaking the signals he’s picked up from Drift in the past as...well. Maybe they were platonic after all. He’s about to find out.

Drift doesn't say anything for a long moment. But he finally looks down, breaking into a small smile before shifting his fingers back into a more comfortable supporting position under Ratchet’s hand. Ratchet looks down too, letting out a soft, slow vent through his nose, glad to not have Drift’s intense, honest gaze on him, but equally motivated to watch his hand move in slow, wandering patterns over his palm like a small animal, sensing what's there, and even still recovering from the sense of mortification that he’s finally taken the plunge and it was as simple as that. Warmth blooms from his chest outwards, and the thin lines of contact Drift’s making feel electric, the tips of his fingers buzzing and focused like a laser. Even with all the steadiness Ratchet’s worked his whole life towards, a little extra pressure in the right spots from the careful black appendages on the different plates of his palm make his fingers twitch. The feeling shoots through him again, warming him to the point where the silence in the room is broken by the sound of cooling fans.

He reboots his vocalizer again, although to what end, he isn't sure. It's not as if he attempts to say anything following the act. He glances up at Drift again, who catches his eye, now aware of Ratchet’s apparent anxiety. Ratchet’s bracing himself for the impending snark about why he’s suddenly gone shy and silent, trying and failing to come up with an adequate defense to throw out before finding he doesn’t even want to give one. The bite doesn’t manage to enter into this first moment of true intimacy between them. Drift is still wearing a small smile, but it bears no malice; maybe just a bit of mischief. “Relax.” The suggestion is offered in soft tones, but with surety. Ratchet gives a taciturn little nod and looks down again.

Dragging his fingers to the edge of Ratchet’s palm, Drift pauses, playing at the soft, splayed connections where his hand changes from palm to fingers. Ratchet makes the softest of sounds and his hand twitches again, almost attempting to close on reflex for how sensitive it is before he catches himself and forces them to stay open. He catches sight of the tip of a tiny fang pressing into Drift’s lip before the other mech teases a bit harder, rubbing at the little bits of exposed wires and lines he can reach, stirring an even stronger sensation in the medic. Branching outward finally to the still more sensitive parts of his hands, Drift’s fingers hook between his own and run up and down the length of them slowly, applying a light squeeze between them so the charge of invisible sparks makes Ratchet close his optics. His whole frame shudders.

There’s another quiet gasp, and it takes a beat before Ratchet realizes it didn’t come from him. His denta are ground shut again. He peers at Drift, who he notices looks just as affected by this exchange as he is. His optics are wide and soft, his lips are wet and parted. He catches Ratchet watching him and quickly closes his mouth in a small pout. “Wh-What?” Hardly up to the standards of their usual banter.

Ratchet finds he doesn’t mind the change. For now, at least. “C’mere,” he says, moving his chair back from the table between them and gesturing to his own lap.

Drift’s got his palm pinned firmly between his thumb and his fingers like a precious treasure and seems reluctant to let go, so he doesn’t as he slides quickly out of his own chair and crosses the small distance to fit himself sideways against Ratchet’s frame. He leans his helm against Ratchet’s chest and curls his body into the curve of Ratchet’s other arm, which loops around him so his free hand comes to rest on the _very warm_ plating of his side. He’s warm all over—they both are—and the sudden increase in contact points has them both still and shivering for a brief moment.

Ratchet leans his cheek against the top of Drift’s head and traces his fingers over the alternating red and white plates on Drift’s midsection just above his hip, glad to be able to touch him back. He feels the other mech quake again and hears his fans kick off with a loud whirr, and belatedly realizes that Drift might be running a bit too warm for this to just now be happening. He frowns. “I feel like I shouldn’t have to tell you not to hit manual override on your fans until you run the risk of melting your engine, kid,” he says airily, not wanting to ruin the moment but unable to resist chastising dangerous behavior.

“So don’t,” Drift says stubbornly, shifting around in Ratchet’s lap to nuzzle up against him. He’s not quite warm enough for it to be dangerous, so Ratchet lets him have his little bit of pride and goes quiet again, leaning into him and trailing over the plating of his abdomen again.

Clutching Ratchet’s palm with both hands now, Drift presses both thumbs lightly into either side of it, bending it gently and pulling out and down across the plates in a soft massage. The heat and static of Drift’s field are palpable and warm as they lick through Ratchet’s plating, his wiring, and make him clutch the other mech closer, splaying his fingers out over his belly and tracing the fine beveling in his close-tolerance, beautiful frame. Drift writhes into him and smooths his thumbs up Ratchet’s palm, skirting along the bottommost portions of his fingers again.

Ratchet watches as Drift bends his wrist forward gently, straightening his fingers so he can pull his hand up to his mouth and press a soft, warm, open-mouthed kiss across the palm. His processor jumps slightly at this momentary hike in sensation—the softer metal skimming against his brushed-over and brushed-again plating—the press of Drift’s glossa against the small gap between his lips—and the following rush of heat when he closes his lips and just holds them there. The small vibrating hum in his throat he makes to let the doctor know he’s enjoying this too.

Ratchet groans back, kissing the top of Drift’s helm tenderly and squeezing the other mech to him. At this point, they can’t actually get much closer, but the shifting of their frames together brings with it a bristle of more EM sparks jumping between them at each and every speck of contact. Ratchet swears he can hear the hum of it as he readjusts his hand and traces a single finger along the beveled edge of his hip. Taut friction bristles between them, and the resonation between their cores is escalated now by the tiniest movement. “ _Ah_ , Ratchet,” Drift murmurs into his hand as his thumbs squeeze it, forcing out an even higher exchange of energy.

Ratchet nearly winces at the potency of the pleasure. “Easy, kid,” he murmurs through a harsh vent, but Drift still squirms against his chest plate. He nudges his helm up under Ratchet’s chin as he clamps the doctor’s hand over the buffed paint on his chest where his badge once was. The thrum of his spark reverberates through Ratchet’s whole arm, and he wonders if Drift can feel Ratchet’s own spark echoing against his shoulder.

His vents stutter again, forgotten with each new surge from Drift’s spark, from his hands, from his everything, and with the next vibrant flutter of energy he hikes his arm around Drift’s middle, knocking him free from under his chin so he can steal his lips for a kiss. The overload is almost instantaneous for the both of them, lasting throughout the gasping, desperate pushes of their lips and glossa against each other. Ratchet can hardly feel anything but their fields mixing and thriving together, but when the aftershocks quiet down he notices he’s threaded his fingers between Drift’s over his chest plate where they’re still both held together on top of his still pulsing spark chamber. The sound of venting and fans spinning down fills the room, but neither of them feels the urge to move for a long time. And Ratchet thinks his recently injured hand already feels a lot better.


End file.
